la motocyclette
by kurohaha
Summary: Five times Adrien is reminded that his girlfriend is cooler than him. [adrinette]
1. premier

_A/N: something short/cute? motorcycle au! ft adrinette; post-reveal & they're aged up._

 _Disclaimer_ _: I own nothing._

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 **premier.**

The first time she drops by in her new motorcycle, Adrien's initial response is to shower her in concern.

"Isn't that dangerous?"

His hands are on her waist, forehead placed on her shoulder, and he can hear the smile in her voice as she says, "Not if you practice." A huff escapes him. She's like him in the sense that once an idea hits, her stubborn side comes out to stay. He pouts and allows his lips to linger at the soft curve of her jaw, draping his arms more tightly round her—pressing her back against the seat.

Green eyes glow with amusement as he lowers himself to meet her gaze. "You look ridiculous."

"I know."

Marinette brushes him off in such an easy manner that Adrien wonders what it will take to get under her skin this time. To be honest, she looks far from ridiculous in her pink, fluorescent, hi-vis jacket; no, he believes the right words are 'adorable as fuck,' but he's still mildly upset about the situation and demands payment in the form of kisses.

"But, they're safety precautions. And I'd rather not get fined," she continues while turning her cheek, successfully dismissing the way he aims to peck her moving mouth. Her own hands travel up to settle on either side of his neck, gloved fingers tangling into the soft, blonde locks at his nape.

He's realized eons ago that he'll never win with her. [Not that he minds.]

"Are you… Are you _sure_ about this, princess?" Adrien asks and he can't help how he falters, uncertainty clear on his features. He knows that she's more than capable of doing something when she puts her mind to it. She's _Ladybug,_ after all. She's handled more daunting tasks in the past.

Maybe— _maybe_ , it's second-hand fear—a thought that makes him cringe so hard that he's left burying his face in his palm with a groan. No, Adrien Agreste has enough love for himself to avoid admitting that he's terrified of getting on a goddamn motorcycle.

"Mhm. I've told you a million times, I'll be _fine_. Don't worry."

"…Alright."

Her confidence is incredibly attractive.

God, three years later and he still has it bad for her.

His ears feel hot as she tugs her helmet on before handing him his own. Adrien holds no room to argue; she's already throwing one leg over the vehicle and patting the open space at her rear with a grin. Some part of him is kind of embarrassed, though the rest is more than ready to try this.


	2. deuxième

_Disclaimer_ _: I own nothing._

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 **deuxième.**

The second time she drops by in her new motorcycle, Adrien is unable to wipe the smile from his face.

As humble as he tends to behave in his civilian form, he's already bragged in front of all of his friends. Nino had very sternly told him to relax when enough was enough, to take deep breaths and to stop being such an annoying shit, but Adrien _knows_ this and it's just another reason to drown the others in endless ramblings about his cool girlfriend.

The Gorilla had been assigned to drive him to his photoshoot, which is in less than ten minutes. To his great pleasure, she had arrived just in time to rescue him and there had been no regrets when he'd waved at his bodyguard from the outside of the tinted glass—snorting as the fairly taciturn man rolled his window down to gape at him.

In short, he'd liked it when Marinette had picked him up and taken him on a ride. Plus, he can return the favor later.

[And chuckle when she blushes and tells him to get his mind out of the gutter.]

His hands are locked at her stomach, eyes tracing the narrow slope of her shoulders as she focuses on the road ahead. There's something intimate about being so close to her. Not sexually-charged, per se, but he can't get over how her pigtails bounce in the wind or the honeyed laughter that bubbles out of her as he clicks his tongue and says to watch the speed limit. For a _super-héros du malheur_ , he feels like the luckiest guy in Paris.

"Let's get lunch later." She has to raise her voice to be heard. He hums in approval, "Sounds good. I'll text you when I'm off."

There's no way to peck her cheek without awkwardly bumping their helmets together. He also refuses to do anything that might jeopardize their safety, so he waits until they have come to a full stop before lifting himself off of the motorcycle and removing his headgear. Her eyes are so bright. "Thank you," Adrien mutters, leaning down to steal a few kisses from those inviting lips. Tempted to slip his hand between her thighs and mention tonight—

Of course, they are interrupted.

"Adrien! Your hair is a _mess!"_ Nathalie isn't wrong. The summer breeze receives no blame; it's the dastardly helmet that has turned his carefully styled, blonde locks into a skirmish of strands, sticking out in wild directions. Oops.

Marinette quickly cranks the throttle and drives away before anything more can be said, leaving the model to fend for himself. He's still beaming.


End file.
